A Most Ardent Love
by ScarletLove92
Summary: The meeting, courtship, and estrangement of Sir Percy Blakeney and Marguerite St. Just, ending at the beginning of the original book. (Title subject to change)


_So here is my attempt at a full length Scarlet Pimpernel story. It takes place before the book. My vision of their meeting, courtship, and eventual estrangement that will end at the start of the original book. Hopefully people enjoy it. I also hope that fanfiction is able to fix the trouble they seem to be having with the hit counter. I've received reviews on my other stories, so I know they have been read by more than just one person, but it says I only received one view the night I uploaded the first one shot. So clearly there is something going on there. I've looked into it and I guess a lot of people have contacted support but they aren't even responding to them with a time table. Hopefully it is fixed soon. I hate not being able to see if or how many people are viewing the story. Any-who… enjoy!_

 ** _I am not sure if the rating on this story will go up though it is possible. It would not be until later chapters, most likely until after their marriage. If it does go up, I will most likely be able to give a warning a few chapters in advance._**

* * *

 _A Pretty Illusion_

It was not a particular pleasing day to hold such a banquet. The fact that it was outside only seemed to make matters worse and for Marguerite, who did not wish to be present even on the most beautiful and sunny days late summer could offer, it made an already undesirable obligation even more dreadful. It was incredibly uncommon for the beautiful and sociable young woman to find such a social event distasteful, yet the entire evening was one of total abhorrence to her.

Though she had remained silent since the invitations arrived, she had voiced her displeasure to her brother as she came down the stairs that afternoon, readying themselves for the short carriage line to the city limits. Her brother gave her the gentle coaxing she needed, the amused reminder that she had a reputation to maintain as well as he and their presence was necessary.

"Especially now," he had told her, examining himself in the mirror. "The time for excuses was this past week, when not last minute."

"But last minute is just the time for excuses!" she had teased, though already had she discarded any thought of actually going through with her ardent desire. "How can I possible tell them a week before that I am to suddenly fall deathly ill the very night of the party?"

Armand smiled at her, eyes twinkling with amusement, and placed on his coat. He jerked his head toward the front door and placed his hat on his head. She sighed and pulled on her gloves, remaining in place as she did so.

"I for one believe it terribly improper to be invited to a banquet in such a manner and by such people no less," she pouted. "Truly, I've no real qualms about royalists, so long as they do not try to uproot our new government, even them I can respect, but people who lack conviction… who will entertain an ardent revolutionary one day and a near fanatical royalist the next…"

She shook her head.

"I like it not."

"All the same," Armand replied, opening the front door. "It is necessary."

She stepped out into the day and immediately breathed in the fresh scent of rain. Rain clouds gathered overhead, not a hint of blue in the grey sky, but the air was warm and Marguerite hardly knew if she had dressed appropriately or not. Her eyes lingered on the sky just a few more moments before she allowed Armand to help her up into the carriage.

They rolled through the streets Paris, the carriage rocking from side to side slowly, and Marguerite stared out the window. She saw a friend walking down the street with a handsome young suitor and followed her with her eyes as far as she could. She was lucky enough not to be trapped into the engagement as was Marguerite. She spotted Madame Charbonneau walking stepping out of her own carriage and climbing the steps of her townhouse, no doubt readying for another wave of youth to arrive at her home for her evening session in her modest salon. Marguerite continued to look longingly as they went, her mood very slowly worsening.

As they passed through the streets they slowly left the richer neighborhoods and momentarily descending to the depths of Paris. Children hurried past, a few chasing the carriage looking for coin. She tossed out five pennies, regretting it as she did, for there were only four boys and she was sure she had just created animosity between the children, if not insured a scuffle.

"I really wish he did not go this route," Armand mumbled, also looking out the window. "But it _is_ significantly faster."

She said nothing and watched an old woman with a crutch come out of her small home, smacking a young man with her paper. The boy, a son or grandson she did not know, tried to block the blows with raised hands, but made no attempt to snatch away the paper. She smiled as she watched, once again losing sight of the them as the carriage took a turn and brought them back into a more reputable area of Paris.

"Must I dance?" she asked Armand.

"Once or twice," he answered with an amused smirk on his lips. He knew as well as she that once up, she would dance most of the night. It would be the only thing to save the evening.

"Oh, the agony," she breathed, half in jest. She swung her eyes over to her brother once more. He was shaking his head as he smiled, eyes cast out the window, examining the white washed buildings of the magnificently upper class neighborhood they rode down. Most houses were boarded up, the nobility that lived within the walls either having fled or hunkered down, unwilling to leave their property to the mercy of the people.

They arrived outside the Renaudin estate just after three o'clock and the day had done nothing to suggest it would clear by nightfall, as sometimes it did. If perhaps the day were better her mood might have improved. One could hardly stay too sullen when faced with a glorious day outside, dancing and feasting well into the night.

"Remember, you are to be polite," her brother cautioned as they stepped from the carriage outside the glorious three story home.

"I am always polite," she answered pleasantly, though she already felt her disgust welling up inside of her. In truth, though she had primarily voiced the man's dubious political morals as her main objection, she could not help but feel her own more standard moral objections coming to the forefront of her mind now. Had she not wished to appear childish before her brother, she would have informed him that would not go to celebrate the birth of a woman who lived in the home of a man still married to an imprisoned wife. That she would not look her in the eye and smile, wishing her health and happiness.

They arrived at the front of the home and were lead through an approved hallway to the back patio. The tables were set up along the east lawn, surrounded by flowers and under a stunning tree, but she would not be at all surprised if servants were currently scampering within the mansion walls, readying a second banquet table under the safety of the roof just in case the skies did not hold.

"Oh, there is Madamoiselle Touchard," she said happily, pulling her arm from her brothers. She got to her tip toes to place a kiss to his cheek. "I shall return to you shortly."

She left, but both knew that she would be off the rest of the rest of the night.

To her slight annoyance the night cleared up quite nicely. Though there was a slight sprinkle of rain just before dinner and the clouds never truly dissipated from the sky, the air warmed some and the moon could be seen in the sky, brightly illuminating the already well lit garden party. A nice breeze filled the air, washing away the sticky feeling currently hanging over their heads, and by the time the second course was served, Marguerite was perfectly happy with her little group of friends in the middle of the table.

"Do not look now," Jacqueline Delcroix said in a hushed voice as she leaned over her food to be better heard by her friends on the opposite side of the table. "But there is a man that keeps looking over here."

"At who?" Frederique Jaccoud asked, her excite brimming in her glassy green eyes. Perhaps too much champagne had added to her already annoying habit of indiscretion, but she looked up and down the table for the man in question.

"I do not know, but it is certainly one of us," Jacqueline said happily, cheeks flushed, blue eyes twinkling in the candlelight. "To your left Marguerite, halfway down, the man in the peach suit."

Marguerite turned her head, hoping to be as subtle as possible. She frowned when she saw no one looking in their direction, and scanned the table for men in peach. She found more than one, some more handsome than others.

"No one is looking," she mused, believing it just another silly game her friend was playing.

"Well not now," Jacqueline answered with exasperation, looking across to Marguerite. She reached up to play with her red curls, pressing her tongue to the side of her mouth as she looked at her with amused reserve. She rolled her eyes to her right. "My side, halfway down, peach suit, blond hair, a beast of a man. A head taller than the others. How you did not spot him immediately I really do not know."

Marguerite turned her eyes again, scanning the opposite side of the table for a tall man in a peach coat. When she found the man in question, he was looking toward her and their eyes locked a moment. She looked down immediately, embarrassed at being caught.

"Do you see?" Jacqueline asked loudly, her two other friends erupting in giggles. Paulette Le Tonnelier, who was silent until this point, looked toward the man in question, a bored expression on her voice, but some curiosity in her eyes.

"I should think he is looking to us because we are all staring at him," Marguerite cautioned softly, glancing toward him again. His face was toward a young lady conversing with him but his eyes were angled toward her, a small smile on his lips.

"He was looking first, I assure you," Jacqueline replied haughtily.

"He is looking to me," Frederique smiled, playing with her hair and waving toward him obnoxiously. "How handsome he is."

Marguerite's skin turned red in humiliation and looked toward her food. She did not even care to note that he somehow, despite he being caught looking to them first, had managed to turn it around, and turned her into the embarrassed party.

"That is Sir Percy Blakeney," Paulette finally added lazily. "And he is most certainly looking to me. He had dinner with papa just last week and I was forced to attend."

The regal young woman put a smile on her face and gave a polite bow of her head to the man. Marguerite looked to see him reply in kind, but she was most certain his eyes darted to her before he even finished the greeting.

"You know him?" Frederique asked. She was angry at the assertion she was not the center of the stranger's attention, but Marguerite knew it was true. It could only be Paulette or she herself he was looking at, given the side of the table they were on and the angle of his eyes. Paulette's prior meeting with him suggested she was what drew his eyes, but Marguerite was once again certain his eyes were on her.

"I am _acquainted_ with him," Paulette answered, reaching for her glass of champagne. "An Englishman."

"An Englishman?" Frederique asked, her excitement having returned to her. She looked toward him again, unabashed. Marguerite kept her eyes to her friends, hoping her manners would make up for the lack of manners her friends possessed.

"Yes, here for no reason other than to positively bore some with his presence and amuse others with his stupidity."

"Stupidity?" Jacqueline asked.

"The man's topic of conversation where he is most comfortable extends from fashion to base aesthetics, with the occasional well-informed word on horses or carriages. Though he seems to think he is quite adept in French politics, his opinions are based entirely on the superficial. I dare say my father only keeps company with him because of his immense wealth."

"A rich handsome Englishman visits you and you say nothing to us?" Frederique asked with teasing outrage. "I am offended, my dear Paulette."

"I have told you," Paulette answered sharply. She, even more so than Marguerite, did not wish to attend this banquet and she had a far better reason for it. "He did not come to visit me. He visited my father and I was forced to sit in on the inane conversation. Everything about the man, I assure you, is as irritating as it is foreign. His French is dreadful, his laugh is grating, and the way he talks… is… so… slow…."

"Still," Frederique mused, actually leaning forward over the table and arching her neck so she might get a better look at him. "he is wonderfully beautiful isn't he? And rich? I dare say I would rather have a dumb husband who was rich and handsome than an intelligent one that was poor and ugly."

"Then I would suggest you reevaluate you priorities," Marguerite scolded kindly. Her eyes darted to the man in question and indeed, she could already see some of what Paulette was speaking. He seemed over the top in the way he held himself, eyes widening as a horrified look overcame his face. He leaned back, raising up a monocle that hung around his neck, one pinky extended daintily. It was really a pity that a man so well built, so handsome, and apparently with a great fortune, should be an utter fop with nothing to fill his head but the most trivial matters.

"He is looking again," Frederique squealed and Marguerite once again looked over. This time he was looking toward Frederique. Marguerite was embarrassed on her behalf and waited to see the man's reaction anxiously. His eyes, blue she thought, though difficult to see from this distance, swung lazily back to her, a small amused smile on his lips, a slight raise of his eyebrows. She giggled softly, bringing her cloth to her lips. What harm might it do to flirt with an idiot from across a table?

She looked back to him and found a wider smile on his face, his eyes still on her. Oh, he was most certainly not looking toward Paulette. And as far as Paulette was concerned, despite her apparent contempt for the man, seemed a little put out to discover that as well. Marguerite looked back to her food and toward the charmed Frederique.

"Do you think he will dance with me?" she asked.

"If the man knows how," Paulette said bitterly. "The man is so massive I doubt he can hold himself with any grace."

"Unfair to say if you have yet to see him dance," Jacqueline mused. Another course was brought out and Marguerite poured herself another small glass of champagne. She chanced another look back to the Englishman. He was listening to something someone was saying, his monocle pressed to his pursed lips, eyebrows elevated. Suddenly his eyes darted to hers and, she was most certain, he winked at her.

The rest of the meal continued in such a manner. She would speak to her friends, giving a glance to the Englishman every few minutes or so, exchange a look of amusement or a smile, and then look away with slightly reddened skin. Though he was not looking at her every time she turned her eyes in his direction, it never took long for his eyes to find hers again.

When the clock struck eleven people began to rise from their seats, many having gorged themselves, and Marguerite looked over the food still left on many people's plates. Odd, she could not help but think, that many of these people considered themselves such staunch republicans and yet could feast in such a manner, take part in such waste, and pretend to care about the _people_. She was guilty of it as well, she was introspective enough to know it, but it did not stop of her from feeling a certain disgust for all those around her.

"I want the Englishman to dance with me," Frederique whined, wrapping her slender arms around one of Marguerite's as they made their way toward the rose bushes.

"You could try asking him," Marguerite suggested. She glanced over her shoulder to try and find him but he was lost in the multitude.

"No," Frederique said sadly. "I do not desire to appear forward."

Marguerite could hardly contain her laughter. Frederique hoping to appear modest, a laughable prospect. The girl had no problem at all being forward.

They were all asked to dance sporadically, momentarily leaving their group's location to dance. Marguerite was asked very often, but managed to refuse politely when need be as a result, citing exhaustion. The young men left her regretfully, vowing to return when she had more energy.

"Oh, oh, oh!" Frederique called as Paulette returned from a dance with a handsome young man she had no interest in. Marguerite looked around, expecting to see some sort of scene... a couple fighting, a drunkard falling down on the floor, a married man or woman sneaking off with another. Instead, she found nothing of any importance. Simply people having fun at a good party. "He is coming this way."

Marguerite looked darted her eyes around but would not turn her body. She did not wish to appear eager to find the man, especially if he was as idiotic as Paulette said.

"Oh, he is even taller than I thought," she breathed and Marguerite followed her gaze to her right. She felt some excitement as she watched him come closer. Regretfully he did not approach them, but instead stopped in front of the lonely Lisette Gaudet. Marguerite's lips parted as she watched the man bend, reaching out to collect the bewildered girl's hand. The girl's pock marred face showed the surprise Marguerite felt, the remaining scars of her brush with death at a young age wrinkling deeply. She blushed madly, eyes wide, and nodded at whatever it was the idiot Englishman said. The Englishman brought the back of her hand to his lips as she stood, biting her lower lip in an attempt to contain her excitement.

A smile was on Marguerite's lips as she watched him guide the girl to the dance floor, lining up opposite her and bowing deeply. Her gaze left them as Frederique huffed to her left.

"Asks ugly Lisette to dance and not I."

She raised her chin haughtily.

"He is being kind," Marguerite said. "Even an idiot can be kind."

"Most idiots are," Jacqueline mused. "They have not the intelligence for wickedness."

"Do you truly think he is so stupid?" Marguerite asked Paulette, hoping for a different response, perhaps just a little doubt. She would receive none.

"Speak to the man and you can tell me," Paulette replied, reaching up to collect a glass of champagne. Marguerite looked to the man as he danced with the unfortunate girl, a smile on his face, a twinkle in his eyes, completely unfazed by the deep scars on her cheeks. "Not too long though, I beg of you, my dear Margot. Or you will most certainly begin to feel your own intelligence dissipate into nothingness."

"A pity," Marguerite mused. "Very much a pity."

* * *

Though she was beginning to tire, Marguerite agreed to dance with a young man one might consider a serious suitor. He very often came to her salon to discuss politics, history, music or language. He was handsome, an inch or so taller than she, and kind, from a great republican family, and, luckily, not too pressing. Despite he being one of her most favorable suitors, she could not see herself every really marrying him.

"Will you be entertaining tomorrow?" he asked as they lined up. The air once again smelled like rain and she looked for her brother, hoping they might take their leave soon.

"Oh, I think not," she smiled. "I hope to sleep away most of the day."

"A travesty to be sure. None of my days are spent better than in conversation with you," he answered. His brown eyes twinkled with affection and champagne. Philippe Mallette had been introduced to her a few months before at a Christmas party. Since that day, she had seen him nearly every other day without fail. Everyone but he seemed to realize if she planned on marrying him, she would have done so already.

The music began and she took her first step. It was a dance she enjoyed, one she was good at, and she focused more on the dance than she did Philippe. She responded to him when she spoke, but offered no more than was polite and necessary. As she turned, weaving between two other people and meeting up temporarily with another partner, she raised her eyes to smile polite, make a small greeting if she thought it was expected, and then retreat back to Philippe.

But when she thought to find eyes she found only a neatly tied, if extravagant, cravat. Her eyes continued upward and she found herself looking into a pair of lazy blue eyes. His hand drawfed hers as they met above her head, hardly higher than his own head, and she searched for something to say. She found nothing but he spoke in her place.

"Mademoiselle," he greeted simply, a small bow of his head as they circled a moment. He said nothing else but they held eye contact. After what felt like an eternity they parted, weaving back through their partners, he one way, she the other. She smiled at Philippe but turned her eyes down toward the Englishman.

When the dance ended and Philippe departed to speak with his sister she returned to a bemused looking Paulette. She sat on a bench, her arms crossed, chin raised, and was staring toward her parents, willing them to take her home.

"I can introduce you if you like," Paulette offered when Marguerite sat down beside her. Her eyes remained on her parents, eyebrows raised over so slightly with annoyance at still being at the banquet.

"Introduce me?" Marguerite asked in confusion. She had known Paulette's parents most of her life.

"To Sir Percy Blakeney," she answered. "I believe his visit to my home makes me enough of an acquaintance to make an introduction… should you like."

Paulette turned her eyes to look at Marguerite, clearly unamused.

"I do not think so," Marguerite responded, looking toward the handsome Englishman where he stood with a group of friends, all laughing uproariously at something he said. "Best not ruin the illusion."

"Unfortunate really," Paulette mused.

"A pity," Marguerite said again, looking sadly toward the Englishman. It was so like God, to create an otherwise perfect man, and make him a complete imbecile. She did not want to see that side of him. She would rather enjoy the little fantasy she might be able to create of him in her mind. If she never saw him again she would be all too pleased. Better that than to shatter the image of such a fine looking man. "Truly a pity."


End file.
